"Golden Heart?"
The girl started, then turned to face him, the blood drained from her face.
"Excellency . . ." she said breathlessly, bowing low, her body placed between him and the cot, as if to hide the child.
He stepped into the room, looking past her. "What's happening here?"
She half-turned her head, clearly frightened, taking one small step backward so that she bumped against the edge of the cot.
"Whose child is that?"
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with fear. "Excellency . . ." she repeated, her voice small, intimidated.
He saw and understood. He would get nothing out of her by frightening her, but it was important that he know whose child it was and why it had been brought here. Whoever it was, they would have to go, because this was too serious a breach of house rules to be overlooked. He moved closer, then crouched down before the girl, taking her hands and looking up into her face.
. "I'm not angry with you, Golden Heart," he said softly, "but you know the rules. The child shouldn't be here. If you'll tell me who the mother is, I'll arrange for her to take the child away, but you can't keep her here. You know you can't."
He saw doubt war with a strange, wild hope in her face and looked down, puzzled. What was happening here? He looked up at her again, his smile encouraging her.
"Come, Golden Heart. I'll not be angry. You were only looking after it, after all. Just tell me who the mother is."
She looked away, swallowing almost painfully. Again there was that strange struggle in her face, then she looked back at him, her eyes burning wildly.
"The child is yours. Your son."
"Mine?" He laughed sourly, shaking his head. "How can it be mine?"
"And mine," she said softly, uncertainly. "Our child . . ."
He stood, a cold anger spreading through him. "What is this nonsense? How could you have a child? You were sterilized years ago."
She bowed her head, taken aback by the sudden sharpness of his voice. "I know," she said, "but I had it reversed. There's a place—"
"Gods!" he said quietly, understanding what she had done. Of course. He saw it now. She must have stolen some jewelery or something to pay for it. But the child . . .
He pushed past her, looking down at the sleeping infant. It was a large baby, five or six months in age, with definite Eurasian features. But how had she kept him hidden? How had she kept her pregnancy from being noticed? "No ... 1 don't believe you."
She came and stood beside him, resting her hands against the rail of the cot, her chest rising and falling violently, a strange expectation in her face. Then she bent down and lifted the child from the cot, cradling him.
"It's true," she said, turning, offering the child to him. "He's yours, Hans. When I knew I'd fallen I had him removed and tended in a false uterus. After the birth I had him placed in a nursery. I'd visit him there. And sometimes I'd bring him back here. Like today."
"Secretly," he said, his voice calm, distant, a thousand li from his thoughts.
"Yes . . ." she said, lowering her head slightly, willing now to be chastised. But still she held the child out to him, as if he should take it and acknowledge it.
"No," he said, after a moment. "No, Golden Heart. You had no child. Don't you understand that? That thing you hold doesn't exist. It can't be allowed to exist. GenSyn is a complex business and you had no right to meddle in it. That thing would be an impediment. A legal nightmare. It would—inconvenience things.
Can't you see that?"
A muscle twitched beneath her left eye, otherwise she made no sign that she had understood the meaning of his words.
"It's all right," he said. "You won't be punished for your foolishness. But this"— he lifted his hand vaguely, indicating the sleeping child—"this can't be allowed. I'll have someone take it now and destroy it."
Her whimper of fear surprised him. He looked at her, saw the tears that were welling in her eyes, and shook his head. Didn't she understand? Had she no sense at all?
"You had no right, Golden Heart. You belong to me. You do what I say, not what you want. And this—this is ridiculous. Did you really think you could get away with it? Did you really believe for a moment . . . ?" He laughed, but the laughter masked his anger. No. It was not acceptable. And now his mood was broken. He had been looking forward to the mui tsai, but now even the thought of sex was suddenly repugnant to him. Damn her! Damn the stupid girl with her addle-brained broodiness! He should have known something was up. Should have sensed it. Well, she'd not have another chance, that was certain. He'd have the doctors make sure of it this time. Have them make it irreversible.
And the child? It was as he'd said. The child didn't exist. It could not be allowed to exist. Because GenSyn would be threatened by its existence: the very structure of the company undermined by the possibility of a long, protracted inheritance battle in the courts.
He looked at the girl again, at the pathetic bundle she held out before her, and shook his head. Then he turned away, calling out as he did so, summoning his servants to him.
LI SHAI TUNG'S figure filled the tiny overhead screen, his face grave, the white robes of mourning he wore flowing loosely about him as he came slowly down the steps to make his offering before the memorial plaque. Beneath the screen, its polished surface illuminated by the flickering light from the monitor, another, smaller plaque had been set into the foot of the wall, listing all those who had died in this small section of the deck.
Axel Haavikko knelt before the plaque, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched forward. His face was gaunt, his eyes red from weeping. He had not slept since the news had come.
He had thought himself alive again, reborn after years of self-destruction—years spent in idle, worthless dissipation—that moment in Tolonen's office twelve years before, when Hans Ebert had betrayed him, put behind him finally, his life redeemed by his friendship with Karr and Chen, made sense of by their common determination to expose Ebert—to show him for the hollow, lying shit he was. But all that was as nothing now. The light that had burned in him anew had gone out. His sister was dead. Vesa, his beloved Vesa, was dead. And nothing—nothing— could redeem the waste of that.
He took a shivering breath, then looked up again, seeing the image of the T'ang reflected in the plaque where Vesa's name lay. Vesa Haavikko. It was all that remained of her now. That and the relentless ghosts of memory.
On that morning he had gone walking with her. Had held her arm and shared her laughter. They had got up early and gone down to see the old men and their birds in the tree-lined Main at the bottom of Bremen stack. Had sat at a cafe and talked about their plans for the future. And afterward he had kissed her cheek and left her to go on duty, never for a moment suspecting that it was the last time he would ever see her.
He moaned softly, pressing his hands against his thighs in anguish. Why her? She had done nothing. If anyone, it was he who deserved punishment. So why her?
He swallowed painfully, then shook his head, but the truth would not be denied. She was dead. His beloved Vesa was dead. Soulmate and conscience, the best part of himself, she was no more.
He frowned, then looked down, suddenly bitter, angry with himself. It was his fault. He had brought her here, after all. After long years of neglect he had finally brought her to him. And to what end?
A tear welled and trickled down his cheek.
He shuddered, then put his hand up to his face. His jaw ached from gritting his teeth, trying to fend off the images that came—those dreadful imaginings of her final moments that tore at him, leaving him broken, wishing only for an end to things.